Boots thundered against the tramped-down grasses of the Deeping-coomb, arrows thudding dully against the reinforced stone walls of Helm’s Deep. The sun had set on the battle many hours ago, and hints of new daylight were beginning to peek above the White Mountains and colour the sky a muddied blue.

The outer wall had been lost. An unexpected explosion, started from the sewage gate, you suspected, had driven Gondor’s soldiers back to defend the inner walls. Blood, Orc and Man alike, slicked the grounds and stifled the air with hatred.

You’d lost Legolas a while ago. Too focused on your own fights as one, two, three Orcs came at you at the same time, their jaws opened wider than seemed possible for their melded faces. They were faces not natural at all, seemingly cobbled together with their features twisted at angles impossible for anything of Light.

You blocked the first Orc’s strike, flinging its heavy blade away and spearing it through the neck with your weapon. The second was taken down by an arrow from somewhere else far above—you didn’t have time to check who had fired it before the third was upon you, knocking you to the ground and snarling in your face.

A slash to the neck dealt with it quickly, and you rolled out from under its body. Men around you fought, but they were not made for battle—a moment spent watching them struggle was a waste, and did nothing but make you feel worse for these children and these old men forced into battle-wear, made to hold swords they could wield. You struggled to your feet and continued fighting.

Many deaths of Orc and Man later, you hadn’t even heard the Uruk-hai behind you, its club raised in malice as you fought off another beast ahead. The arc of its swing began with a soft whooshing of air, down upon your head, and you turned then just enough to catch the corner of an elbow getting closer in the peripherals of your vision. A fruitless raising of the arm; you covered your eyes, believing the end—

—when a flash of green and brown dove in front of you, sliced the club and the Orc’s neck clean in two with a single stroke. The club fell aside weakly, and the thing’s body followed it soon after.

“Are you alright?” Legolas asked quickly, turning his head to check you over for injuries but keeping his sword-arm ahead.